


The Eye of the Watcher

by RembrandtsWife



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Initiation, Magic, Mentor/Protégé, Mysticism, Ritual Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 17:39:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1866573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/RembrandtsWife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Eye of the Watcher sees in the dark. Dawn Summers sees things she does not expect when she is initiated into the Order of the Watchers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eye of the Watcher

**Author's Note:**

> This was written way back in January 2009 for a Buffy kink fest hosted at [mmm_smut](http://http://mmm-smut.livejournal.com/) on Livejournal and posted anonymously. I came across it in my "Fanfic in Progress" folder this morning, remembered what it was, read through it, and decided it was worth posting. 
> 
> Note that while I have tagged this with "Age Difference", it takes place well after the conclusion of BTVS and Dawn is an adult here.

The ritual was almost over now; Devon was opening the little door at the far end of the hall, and the two banner-bearers came to flank Dawn and lead her there, from the east to the west. There was some symbolism there, east to west, sunrise to sunset, the Watcher going into the darkness, but that didn't matter now; it was all just a jumble in her head, what Giles had told her about the ritual ahead of time, the preparatory reading, Wicca, Freemasonry, the Golden Dawn, Iamblichus, Tantra-- Miss Devon stood back from the little open door, her pale eyes intent on Dawn's face, and the banner-bearers pushed her gently into the dark.

The door closed behind her, and Dawn felt a gust of air stir her thin white robe--warm air, surprisingly, much warmer than the air of the ritual hall. Then there was a noise, something, and a single candle lit the room. A single candle was all that was needed to show bed, table, symbolic tapestries on the walls--and behind the light, holding the candle, her initiator.

Giles.

Of course. She had known it all along, hadn't she? He'd been her mentor from the start. And except for a few really old folks who only turned up for rituals and general councils, he was the most senior Watcher. It had to be Giles.

Why did it have to be Giles?

He'd been part of the ritual; she hadn't noticed when he'd disappeared. He was wearing the black robe the seniors wore, with the flat silver pendant engraved with the symbol of the order, the open Eye that reminded her of the eye of Horus. Not the eye of Horus, though, the sun god with the form of a hawk, ruler of the day and vanquisher of the night. The Eye of the Watcher is an eye that sees in the dark.

Giles saw her. Dawn pulled on the ties at her throat and shrugged off her robe.

He put the candle down on the bedside table, carefully, and stepped toward her. Bowed, and then knelt, to give her the ritual kiss that the Wiccans had borrowed; one of old Gardner's coven-mates had been a Watcher. Feet, belly, breasts, and then lips. He smelled of mint and frankincense and a hint of bay rum. At first his lips barely touched hers, a continuation of the ritual; he looked down and away, that look he got when he wanted to hide his feelings, and then into her eyes. Dawn lifted her hand toward him, toward the open Eye on his breast, and Giles took her gently by the shoulders and kissed her again.

This wasn't just part of the ritual; this was a man kissing a woman, his lips soft, the scent of bay rum stronger this close to his skin, and his tongue gliding, hot, her lips opened and she stepped closer, lifted her arms around his shoulders. Giles. Kissing her. He gathered her close. Cool silk of his robe and the chill Eye swinging against her and shudders ran through her, up and down, coldness and fire.

Giles stepped back. He bent and pulled the robe off over his head, leaving the Eye behind. Hadn't she read that that was part of the sealing, the touch of the Eye passing from mentor to student? He stood still, giving her time to look at his body. An aging body, though fitter than most; more than the hair on his head was grey, and he was thick around the middle in spite of all the hours he spent training. Britain had much better pastries than the U.S., Dawn thought, and then forgot about food completely as she looked unabashed at his genitals, the heavy balls and the thick shaft partly swollen, rising to point toward her.

Good thing I'm not a virgin, she thought, and then he touched her again, taking her hands and drawing her against him skin to skin. Warm hairy man, his cock nudging hopefully against her belly, large hands stroking her back, and still the Eye against his chest stayed cold and open, chilling her every time it brushed her skin.

She let Giles draw her onto the bed and made herself be relaxed, passive. She was having sex with Giles, with her sister's Watcher (and that was wrong, why wasn't this wrong? but it felt right), but it wasn't just having sex, getting it on, getting laid. It was... sacred, really. Watchers as much as Slayers had a sacred calling, a sacred duty; if the ritual worked, if magic worked (and she knew it did), there were witnesses here even in the small candle-lit room, watching her sealing to the work even as they had heard her oaths along with the assembled Watchers. There were Powers, and she would be accountable to them. For now, Giles. Let Giles touch her.

And he did touch her, and damn, he was good. She had thought, at first, that she should just lie there and think of England, relax enough so that he could, could take her without it hurting, but that just wasn't possible. Not when his lips and his tongue and his fingers made her breasts as hard and aching as his cock. Not when he murmured soothingly as he kissed his way down her belly, and she did kind of have a thing for the accent, always had. And especially not when his hands were gripping her thighs, just hard enough for it to feel really really good, and his mouth and her cunt were having a relationship all their own.

"Oh, God!" It took Dawn a second to realize she had just yelled out loud, and maybe she shouldn't. But God, that mouth. She might have heard a chuckle down there, but his tongue seemed to be everywhere at once, and one finger had slipped inside her, just kind of petting and stroking and pressing on one spot and oh, fuck, she was coming again--

Giles was kissing her thighs. Dawn was panting. Her mind was completely blown by the discovery that Giles was a fantastic lover; her body was demanding more sex, more coming, more tongue, and maybe some cock? And another part of her, just awakening, was watching the flicker of the candle flame, and the little sparkles in the corners of the room.

She made a little noise of protest--Giles was moving away. No, he was just changing position, moving over her. She met his eyes and nodded; she was ready, and she remembered what she was supposed to do during intercourse.

Giles's body, warm and heavy, his belly brushing over hers, and then his cock, questing forward. Dawn raised her hips to take him, and they sank back to the mattress together, joined. He kissed her forehead, murmuring something, and she felt the chill of the Eye medallion pressed between them.

Giles began to move, very slowly at first. Dawn concentrated on what she had been trained to do: contracting her muscles each time he penetrated and pulling inward and upward, imagining that something, some feeling, some kind of energy, was sweeping up to the top of her head with every pull. "But won't it just be imagination?" she had asked Willow, who didn't say anything about her hot blushing. "Not for long," Willow said, in her best witchy voice. "If you imagine the energy doing something, it will do it, and if you pay attention, you'll feel it."

She contracted. She imagined. She paid attention. Giles grunted softly and moved a little faster. It was usually... better than this, and she had been so turned on.... Contract. Imagine. Pay attention. Was it getting brighter in here? She canted her hips and Giles thrust a little harder. That was better, he was hitting her clit now; ritual sex wasn't really all that much fun-- Wait, what were those sparkles?

"Giles--"

"Yes," he said, not merely a response but an answer, although he was starting to quiver in spite of his steady rhythm; his face was flushed in the growing light. Yes, the room was getting brighter; yes, there were sparkles of golden light appearing near the ceiling; yes, something was rushing up her spine, like a waterfall in reverse, like a balloon let go that shot straight up, something was moving that wasn't just Giles, his body, her body, and then the pleasure spiked and she was--

Not in the bed with Giles, in the dark that was no longer dark.

Standing, naked? robed? there was so much light around her that it was hard to see. Standing in a place much like the Watcher's ritual hall, only there were radiant globes of light instead of torches, shifting figures like flames wearing robes instead of ordinary men and women in black and grey. Everything was bright and warm, and Dawn felt confused and baffled, safe and comfortable all at once.

"Welcome home."

The voice came from a few feet in front of her, but she couldn't see anything. Or, well, anyone. She saw a column of something red and gold that maybe looked like a long-haired man with a spear... or was it a sword? And was there a dragon under his feet, or was it coiling around his arm, or what?

"You don't remember it, but you were one of us. You came from here--were ravished from here, kidnapped, stolen like a treasure, for so you were. Fashioned by misguided sorcerers into a key, to lock up the hell-god, whose name is not worthy of our mention. You were stolen, you were lost, you were misused--but now, you have come home."

The voice was a warm, deep baritone, and it shivered around her the way her dad's voice used to when she was a little girl and he held her close and told her he would always take care of her. But that memory was a fiction, given to her by the monks. The reality--was this.

The flaming minister did not speak again. After a moment Dawn said, "Who are you?"

The answer came in a great chorus from all around her. "We are the Watchers."

The flaming person with the sword, or the spear, or dragon, came closer, and there was a touch on her forehead like a kiss. And then she was falling, falling, falling, and her chest was hot, her heart was on fire, oh, hot, sweet, Giles was gasping, she felt it hot and wet inside her, yes, and then it was over and she was sinking into the mattress, Giles going limp on top of her, and his (ordinary, human) lips touching her brow.

She touched her chest. The medallion of the Eye had left an imprint against her skin, but the touch on her forehead--Giles, the fiery Watcher--that was what was real.

Giles smiled, a comfortable drowsy post-sex smile. "Welcome to the order of the Watchers, Dawn Summers."

Welcome home.


End file.
